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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23211889">ego</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/longituddeonda/pseuds/longituddeonda'>longituddeonda</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Kingsman (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Coronavirus, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Isolation, Light Angst, Sort Of, Tension, it's a quarantine fic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 09:53:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,350</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23211889</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/longituddeonda/pseuds/longituddeonda</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>you and jack are stuck in an apartment when the city you’re in goes into lockdown for covid-19. as the time goes by in isolation, tension can only rise.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jack | Whiskey/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>59</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>ego</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Fuck!” Whiskey yelled from the other room and you heard the shattering sound of glass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You didn’t want to get up but you figured you had to at this point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s wrong, Whiskey?” you say, leaning against the doorframe of your bedroom, staring out into the living space. He was pacing back and forth, which explained the sound that had been driving you insane. Glass littered the carpet near the coffee table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have to fucking stay here,” he growled. He stopped to slam down his hand on the kitchen counter, causing you to jump. “Champ said the mission’s aborted. We’re stuck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shit. “How long are we here for?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t know.  At least a couple weeks, if not more.” Whiskey was getting more worked up with every word. “The damn quarantine doesn’t start for another 12 hours, we could be long gone by then, but headquarters fuckin’ wants us to stay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s for the best, right?” you said, trying to stay calm about things. You weren’t thrilled at the prospect of living with Whiskey for an unspecified period, but you couldn’t complain. Statesman would still pay you, and for the mission you were holed up in one of their properties, a rather large and well-stocked two-bedroom apartment. You weren’t supposed to be here for more than a couple more days so you’d need to get more food, but beyond that? You were set.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For the best? The best would be lettin’ us not get caught in a damn city-wide lockdown. We could at least take up another job in another city.” He was so worked up you were worried he would smash another glass or pull out one of the guns you knew were strapped under that jacket of his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You wandered into the living room, stepping carefully around the broken glass to perch yourself on the couch. “Agent Whiskey, you’re a smart man. What’s the primary purpose of Statesman?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To protect the people of the world from terrorists and other major threats,” he said, reciting the phrase every agent knew by heart. Not because they had to, but because Champ was always saying it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. And COVID-19? It’s a major threat. The virus itself, yeah, but also the panic surrounding it. Everyone’s going insane. Plus, the quarantine helps limit the spread. Staying here is best for the public health. And another mission in another city? Whiskey, you know that the rest of the US is going to follow suit soon enough. We’ve got to accept that we’re here for the foreseeable future.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be here for the foreseeable future.” Even though you were frustrated that Whiskey was acting like a baby, he had at least stopped pacing and was now sinking onto one of the barstools against the kitchen counter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a big apartment.” You shrugged. There wasn’t much left you could do at this point. You had to accept the situation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t sit and read another damn book.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You looked up to see Whiskey standing a few feet away from the couch where you sat, working on a project on your laptop.  He looked tired.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been almost 12 hours since you had lost contact with the rest of Statesman, along with all the intel work they had you doing. The distillery was shut down for health reasons, and given the high number of agents that had tested positive, they opted to shut down operations for a while, leaving you and Whiskey without anything to do to pass the time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to read,” you said. “There’s a tv, a kitchen, you can do whatever you want. There’s an iPad too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t wanna sit around, doll. This life is much too boring.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s the life we’ve got to live, Whiskey,” you said, shutting your laptop and standing up. “And don’t call me doll.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You walked back into your room and shut the door. Over the past couple of days, you had grown fed up with Whiskey; every couple hours he’d pop into wherever you were working and complain. He never wanted to talk with you. He never helped make meals. He didn’t want to do anything with you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But you couldn’t necessarily blame him. Ever since that fateful drunken night a couple months ago things hadn’t been the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The two of you were celebrating a successful mission at the Statesman bar laughing and loudly boasting to whoever would listen. At 3am you stumbled out to the parking lot, attempting to get into your car when Jack sauntered up behind you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Cider, darlin’, you don’t think you’re gonna drive home in that state, are you?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You scoffed. “I’m gonna do whateeeever I fuckin’ please, Jack, you can’t stop me.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I can stop you from driving home drunk.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What are you gonna do about it? Drive me home? ‘Cause I don’t think y’can like that.” You gestured lamely at Jack, swirling around your finger in front of his chest and then poking him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’re right, darlin’, neither of us are gonna be makin’ it home tonight, but my truck’s got more space that that little sedan of yours so I’d suggest you sit pretty in my passenger seat, recline it and sleep.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You made it into his car, but by the time he was helping you recline the seat-back you were tugging him on top of you, pressing your lips to his, and pulling him all the way into the truck. He closed the door and at the same time, dipped a hand under your shirt, working his way up to palm your breast. And the night disappeared into a drunken haze of moaning and connection and something slow and emotional that you were afraid to admit.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The next morning you woke up, pressed against Jack on the reclined seat of his truck, his breath light on your shoulder where his mustache tickled against your skin. Your neck was sore from the position and your arm hurt from the unnatural curve of the seat.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And you were both naked.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That was enough for your eyes to fly wide open. You had just drunkenly fucked your work partner of five years. Five whole years of a professional relationship. Five years of not letting his flirty nature get to you. And you ended up naked in his goddamn truck.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And Jack. He was still caught up on that high school sweetheart of his. The one he lost all those years ago. You knew Jack better than most, and ever since losing her, he hadn’t been one to fuck around. He was going to regret this, and you didn’t want to be the person that ruined things for him. Even if it was something you wanted. So you pushed his arm off from around you (thank god he was a heavy sleeper when hungover) and quietly opened the car door and slipped out into the morning sun.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Later that day you asked Champ to be reassigned partners. He looked you in the eye and asked you why and your silence told him everything.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And thankfully, he didn’t ask any more questions, just signed you off to work with Agent Brandy and for Jack to work with Agent Bourbon.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It was going smoothly until a week later you ran into Jack for the first time since that morning as you were entering the briefing room and he was leaving. The look of anger in his eyes when he saw you caused a sharp pang of guilt that you felt for the rest of the day. The following evening he approached you at the bar.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“So you requested a new partner? Was I that bad?” He was stumbling a bit. Drunk. That took a lot of work for him. A lot of alcohol. You could smell it on his breath.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m sorry Whiskey, it didn’t make sense to keep going. Had to stay professional, you know?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Right. Professional.”  You could tell he was trying to infuse his words with venom, but the alcohol slurred every syllable. “Throwing five damn good years down the drain, and now I’m stuck with Bourbon. Real professional, Cider.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You know it was the right decision. Don’t lie to yourself about it,” you said, trying to convince him. But you were also trying to convince yourself.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You didn’t see him for another couple months, missions keeping the two of you busy. That is until Agent Brandy got himself into a little accident and was stuck in the hospital for a few weeks and Champ gave you little warning before Whiskey wandered into the briefing room for your next mission, looking just as surprised as you were that the two of you were being assigned as partners again.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>You sank down onto your bed. You’d be lying to yourself to say that you weren’t excited to work with Whiskey again, but you had fucked up and now he didn’t want anything to do with you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going out for groceries,” you called back towards the bedrooms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you even do that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, one person per household can leave for essential groceries.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When are you going to be back?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know, depends on the lines,” you said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You heard a door open and Whiskey appeared in the living room. “Can you get some stuff for lasagna?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know how to make lasagna, Whiskey,” you said. If you were going to be doing all the cooking, he was going to have to deal with whatever you put on the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wanted to make it,” he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Whiskey was finally willing to cook. Great. To be honest, you had missed his cooking. On previous missions, if you were lying low for a while, not unlike this, he would cook all the time. The two of you were both comfortable in a kitchen, but Whiskey’s cooking was really the best food in the world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay. Ricotta cheese, parmesan, the noodles, sauce, meat, what else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Garlic and onion,” he said. And he smiled. That was the first smile he had directed at you. Probably since you had hooked up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. See you later?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See you later,” he grinned. You turn to head out the door. “And thank you, darlin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You would never let Whiskey know, but you smiled to yourself on the way out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Things had gotten better between you and Whiskey after he made lasagna. He started helping out with meals. You had bought a few bottles of wine at the store and a few distilled drinks. Those made Whiskey’s eyes light up. Given your shared history with alcohol and each other, you were both pretty good at limiting yourselves, but a glass or two of wine with dinner had you talking into the late evening. You found yourselves spending more time sitting together on the couch to watch movies or read. Sitting down for every meal together became a standard, rather than an afterthought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You still didn’t say a word about what had happened between you. You couldn’t. The whole thing was soaked in shame.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes you would come out to the living room but stop before you stepped into the light when you saw Whiskey staring at the photo of his late girlfriend that he kept in his wallet. Your stomach would turn and you retreat to your room again. As much as you hoped he didn’t notice you watching, you knew he did. He was nothing if not perceptive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can we do something?” you looked up to see Whiskey standing in the door of your room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like what?” you had been reading for the past five hours and were almost done with the series you had started the week before. It was probably good that he was getting you out of the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know, I’m bored.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So am I.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but—” he started. “Never mind. I get that you don’t want to spend time with me. I can take a fucking hint, just, next time? Can you just tell me and not act all distant?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That went a completely different direction than you had expected.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>mean, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Whiskey?” You stood up. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> want to spend time with you, where the hell did you get that idea from? I just asked what you wanted to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean you act so damn distant. I thought things were looking up, like you actually liked me again, but you clearly don’t.” His stance became defensive, and you could see the muscles in his face soften. “I try to do things with you and you accept but you’re never really there. You’re different, Cider. It’s like I don’t even know you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And here you had thought you were lucking out. Like he was beginning to forgive you for sleeping with him. For leaving him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whiskey, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> like you. And I don’t know what I need to say for you to understand that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you’re gonna need to do a lot more than saying shit,” he said. “You’re gonna need to do something. But maybe you could start by explaining things. That’d make me a bit happier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you think I want to keep talking?” You said it before you realized how awful it sounded. But the next words were tumbling out before you could stop them. “When you’re taking every word I say and thing I do and twisting it? I don’t have a fucking clue what I did that gave you the impression that I didn’t like you, I’ve been nothing but damn happy to have you talking to me again the past week. So I’m not going to be doing any fucking explaining when all you’re going to do is spit my words back at me like they were said to hurt you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you do to give me the impression you didn’t like me? Does fucking disappearing the morning after and then asking to never have to work with me again count? Because that was a pretty clear message that you hated me,” Whiskey yelled. He turned around and slammed the door behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was right even if you didn’t want to admit it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You spend the next couple of days holed up in your respective bedrooms. It was almost humorous how you managed to never run into one other. You even prepared meals separately, relying on leftovers from the week when you didn’t have the energy to cook. One lunch you made a plate for Whiskey too, leaving it out covered in plastic wrap on the counter. You heard him go out to the kitchen for lunch an hour later and that night when you made dinner, the plate was still sitting on the counter, wrapped up and uneaten.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He went out for groceries. You were in the living when he came back and stood up to help him unpack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t need your help,” he said, almost devoid of emotion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t mind helping.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I don’t want your help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You took your leave. Not before seeing a large bottle of vodka peeking out of one of the bags. After you took your dinner into your room, you heard him wandering around with the television turned on, loud. When you went out to clean your dishes, he had a glass in his hand and was staring at the screen, playing some sort of morbid news about the virus. Something you were quick to identify as pure fear-mongering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You shouldn’t watch that, Whiskey.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glanced up at you, his voice thick with the alcohol and the southern drawl only amplified. “Cider, babe. You know my name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you know mine, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Whiskey</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should use it,” he smiled, “It sounds so nice coming from those pretty lips.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your stomach clenched. It was one thing to avoid you for what you had done. It was a whole other thing to torment you like this. You liked him, that was nothing new to you, the secret you had kept for years. Hearing him flirt again, flirt while drunk and out of it? It hurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. Well, you should still stop watching. Good night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next morning the entire bottle was empty on the countertop and you didn’t hear a single movement coming from Whiskey’s room until 2pm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Things got worse. <em>So much worse</em>. The isolation was really getting to you. How anyone could manage this for more than a couple days was beyond you. Anyone doing this without anyone else in their home had to be the bravest souls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t do this anymore,” your voice cracked as you stared down at Jack. You had pushed open the door to his bedroom after softly knocking and not relieving any response. It had been a couple days since that night with the vodka.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack was sitting on his bed, laptop up in front of him, but he closed it as soon as he saw you crying at the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s wrong, Cider?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t keep being alone in this house.” The tears were flowing down your cheeks and every few words were punctuated by a gasp for air. “I can’t keep avoiding you. I’m sorry. I fucked up, I know. And </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> haven’t responded well the last few days. But I know it’s ninety percent my fault, and I know you probably can’t forgive me at this point. I honestly thought you were getting close, but then—then you weren’t, and you probably hate me. And I’m so fucking alone now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the time you had taken to say those words, Jack had sprung to his feet and was standing in front of you. His hands were planted on your upper arms, a calming pressure enough to get the tears to subside for a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look at me,” he said, “All I ever wanted was an apology and for you to come back. I never wanted for you to disappear from my life, and then not offer any explanations. You’ve been my most trusted companion for years. I could never hate you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t hate me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course not, darlin,” he smiled. “I’m mad at you, sure. Have been for a while. But hate you? Never. Can you just tell me one thing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anything.” You stared up at those swirling brown eyes that had always held you with such high regard. There were tears in the corners.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why’d you leave?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That whole day was the worst day of my life since I lost her, you know? I woke up after an amazing night and you were gone, and then I got to work and was called in and told I had a new partner. It hurt. Just as much as losing someone. Maybe even worse ‘cause they’re still right there, but don’t want to see you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jack, I—” You weren’t sure where to start. Hearing his side of things made it so much worse. “You don’t do that. The whole, sleeping around thing? That’s me. But you don’t seem to have moved on, and I didn’t want you to resent me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Resent you? I thought you knew. I wouldn’t have let that happen if I didn’t want it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you mean—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cider, you’re it for me. And I thought I wasn’t it for you. I thought you regretted that night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You stared up at Jack in shock. He didn’t regret that night? You had run away from him when he wanted you back? If you had stayed, would you two be—You couldn’t finish that thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I wrong?” Jack asked, and you could now see the worry crossing his features. “You didn’t regret it, did you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. I didn’t.” It felt good to say that. After all of that, for those words to be out there. For the agreement to be laid down in front of the two of you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulled you into a hug.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re it for me too, Jack,” you said, and pushed him back. You wanted to see his face so that you could wrap your hands around his neck and kiss him like you had wanted to for years.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
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